Opening Night
by miabicicletta
Summary: And thus, Laura Roslin made her first true mistake on Earth: she trusted Hollywood.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Opening Night (or, How the Colonials Came to Earth and Hollywood Made A Movie About It)  
**Summary:** "And thus, Laura Roslin made her first true mistake on Earth: she trusted Hollywood."  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Wordcount:** ~11,500  
**Disclaimer:** Certainly not mine. If only.  
**Notes:** Written for MLH8 at the lovely, dedicated comm makelaurahappy. I am both humbled and excited to say it won funniest story and best overall story. Endless thanks to kastari for her tireless beta effort. She undoubtedly made this ten times better than I'd have on my own. It's worth noting that in this AU, Bob Dylan is not a cylon. Someone else might be (depending on how well you know hip-hop...) Apologies to Brian Williams, Jon Stewart and the writers of the Daily Show, the _New York Times, _the United Nations, Variety, elected officials, religious leaders, Jay-Z, Apple, the Obama children, and most of the Screen Actors Guild. My bad, guys. There will also be some extras and goodies accompanying this, so look for those soon.

What a ridiculous thing I have created.

* * *

As it happened, after years of running for their lives, after the collective human failures at New Caprica, after the second exodus and the interim years of chaos and confusion, ravaged by war and desperation...the Colonial Fleet finally found the Thirteenth Colony. They were given shelter from storms that had followed them across the width and breadth of the Universe.

For their part, the people of Earth responded in much the same way as they often did in the face of incomprehensible tragedies which tested the very limits of human grief.

They made a movie about it.

* * *

"This is NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams..."

"The world continues to grapple with the geo-politics of the Colonial and U.S. agreement to settle all forty-one thousand refugees from the Colonial Fleet on American soil over the course of the coming year.

Reaching out to critics, President Laura Roslin continued to assuage concerns over the plan by making another stop on her ambitious one-by-one tour of the G20, the fifth such in as many weeks. She met with officials in Rome today, following last week's address of the European Union in Brussels.

The meeting with Italian Prime minister Silivio Berlusconi and Pope Benedict XVI, which included a Mass in St. Peter's Basilica, was the most recent of several attempts to reach the few remaining heads of state and religious leaders who protest the settlement of the refugees, Colonial officials say.

The Vatican has been one of the most vocal critics of the Colonial/UN negotiations since the Fleet's appearance in Earth's orbit over two months ago.

Already having spent several weeks in the US and Europe, President Roslin's grueling campaign continues with scheduled stops in Cairo, Istanbul, and Delhi, before a prolonged tour of East Asia, including a rare invitation to Pyongyang by Kim Jong Il of North Korea.

Unofficial reports from the Secretary General's office have surfaced concerning the permanent establishment of a Colonial arm in the United Nations. Sources say the department is a logical next step in expanding the terms set forth in the Colonial Technology Exchange Treaty signed by President Roslin and the UN Security Council, as well as various international heads of state and religious leaders. Details are expected to emerge within several weeks..."

* * *

_Fourteen Months Later..._

Of all the surreal moments Laura Roslin had found herself faced with over the past several years, this was, surely, the most aggravating of them all.

Her homeworlds had been destroyed by a rogue and vicious race of artificial beings, and her superiors effectively slaughtered, rendering her the leader of all that remained of humanity. She was the last leader of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, anointed for her unwanted troubles with a labyrinthine crown fashioned from auspicious laurels of prophecy. Hers was not to reason why; hers was but to do, and die...and it sucked.

Still, she'd lived, only to lose her title to a preening Narcisuss who had then (thank you very much) condemned them all to a cold and muddy prison, subsequently patrolled by their sworn enemies. So, of course, she needed to lead a rebellion, save what was left for humanity, and get back on the road to Earth. Had such events been the subject of literary discussion in her classroom, she'd have dismissed them as melodrama, perhaps even satire given the absurdity of it all, and swiftly moved on to more serious fields of consideration.

And yet, as Laura studied her own expression in the lovely light of the penthouse's fine vanity, she decided that having a movie made about her life had to be, quite simply, the strangest experience thus far.

Laura reached for her earring, surveying herself in the mirror as she did. Despite having been planetside for over a year now, it still struck her with a quiet thrill to possess the freedom of actual choice in her wardrobe. While she'd been president, she'd been lucky, if not blessed, to find a rare article of clothing that both fit and was relatively free of wear and tear. Clothes had been functional above all else, and any previous gravitation she'd had towards fashion aesthetics had, by necessity and lack of options, virtually winked out of existence.

At the moment, however, no matter what came of the evening ahead, one thing was for damned sure: Laura Roslin looked good.

With the eye of a woman who had once appreciated the cut and feel of the well made, Laura admired the dress she now wore: a custom made, pale gold, sleeveless Balenciaga sheath. The subtle, shimmering fabric that came just a hair past midthigh fit her like her own skin. It was a dress far more glamorous than a president would normally wear, and as she felt the way it clung to her curves - particularly when she stepped into her three inch Christian Lacroix heels - she reveled in the memory of the little vices that had once belonged to the stylish, but empty woman she had been, lifetimes before, in the gone-away worlds.

Still. There was no way around it: she was dreading every minute of the evening to come.

Laura sighed. That wasn't quite true, she'd see Lee and Kara, have a chance to talk with Galen Tyrol tonight, all of whom had been sequestered in San Diego along with Bill for the past few months. It would be like a family reunion, albeit one at the center of a media firestorm, but a gathering of her makeshift family nonetheless. It was almost enough to make her smile.

Her thoughts darkened as her mind drifted to the reasons she needed this little break tonight.

The events of her meeting with the Secretary General earlier in the week had not gone well. They were still pushing for her to accept and make an announcement.

"There is the option of nominating another Colonial official to the post - a member of your Quorum of Twelve, perhaps?"

Secretary Moon had been accompanied by a score of staff members and aides. After twenty minutes of deliberating, she'd begun to unfairly resent them for anything they had to say.

If he recognized her weariness, he had shown no sign of it, and continued. "But I must impress how strongly my colleagues and I feel that you, Dr. Roslin, represent the best, most natural choice to serve as Ambassador to the United Nations, and to speak as a representative at the representative meeting of the governments of Earth."

Laura gave her best politicians smile, her mind's eye instantly flashing on Tom Zarek's smarmy face , serving in her stead.

"Thank you, Secretary Moon. I shall think about it."

Think about it she had. She had thought of almost nothing else for days.

A knock at the door startled her. She glanced at the clock as she made her way to the door of her suite.

An austere looking member of her security team met her expectant look, hands clasped behind his back.

"The car is downstairs, whenever you are ready ma'am."

"Thank you, David. If you'll give me a moment..."

"Of course, ma'am."

She shut the door and closed her eyes, tempted to press up against it, turn the deadbolt and hide for the next week. Instead, she sought out companionship.

"Bill?"

He emerged from the absurdly large terrace balcony, straightening his bow tie and raising an eyebrow. His earlier good mood, a result of her current wardrobe, she mused, appeared to have entirely vanished. On the whole he looked as perturbed as she felt about the whole affair, it not more so.

"Ready for your close up, Mr. Adama?"

She sidled up to him, tugging the ends of his bow tie for her own novelty. Another of the countless things she had found herself doing lately, just be cause she could. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders as his own gripped her waist.

"You know..." he sighed, affixing her with a severe look over the frames of his glasses, "Some days I hate my job."

* * *

_The first time he'd asked had been after New Caprica. Breathless and filled with a total euphoria at being alive and untouched and off that godsdamned frakkin' mudhole, her answer had been to grin like a fool, pull him flush against her in his rack and kiss him soundly. She hoped the subsequent events quickly dispelled any lingering doubts he might have had._

_It was only later that the details began to muddle the clarity of her joy.

* * *

_

At first, it seemed like good PR.

Over the course of the first few months on Earth, Laura Roslin gleaned enough about western popular culture to recognize that everyone from production studios to major corporations had a stake in the business of filmmaking. It was a huge industry, particularly in the region surrounding the temporary Colonial settlement.

But, what Laura was most keen to note was the tremendous (and rather disconcerting) influence that Hollywood had on mainstream opinion. There were still many powerful groups and leaders who were unhappy with the treaty, and with the Colonials in general. Religious figures, world leaders, celebrities...numerous authorities, of varying degrees of support and power, had voiced their discontent since they Fleet had arrived. Often, loudly.

So when NBC Universal approached her about making a film telling the Colonial story after the Cylon attack, she deliberated only a short while before giving them her blessing.

Surpringly, Lee was an ardent supporter, arguing that it would do much for the Colonial cause. He had managed to convince most members of the Quorum, and almost every person the writing team wanted to involve. (Later, Laura would blame Lee for the two inch-thick stack of forms and releases the studio required. Lee, and the universal constant that was paperwork.)

So she agreed, and lent her support to the project. It was, she recognized later, one of the rare instances in her political career that she exhibited near total, unchecked naivete.

Of course, there were negotiations involving a squadron of lawyers, for her, as well as for any other Colonial the producers approached. But much of the proceedings went in one ear and out the other. As helpful as good press was, there were real issues that demanded her attention far more than the finer points of script review. In the end, she'd shook hands with the creative team and left the heavy lifting to them.

"Gentlemen, I appreciate your candor and willingness to collaborate. It's truly a characteristic I wish more members of the Colonial Quorum of Twelve possessed. However, at this point, I'm afraid I have little to offer in terms of production value. Let us leave it in your capable hands, shall we?"

And thus, Laura Roslin made her first true mistake on Earth: she trusted Hollywood.

Having reached Earth, there were a hundred thousand things to deal with, even more so than as a Fleet on the run. Though at least her agenda contained fewer bullets on waste management and fuel supplies.

Per the terms of their settlement treaty, she'd relinquished the office of President. However, there were innumerous issues still before her as de facto leader. So, with idle curiosity and without much time to indulge it, she deferred any production oversight and power of approval. These were professionals, after all, and at one point she had caught a few minutes of some classic space, war epic, complete with dashing pilot and tenacious heroine, which she had rather enjoyed.

It was a good way to drum up support, a kind of third-party propaganda to entertain, and, she knew it was a stretch to hope for, but perhaps even educate. How bad could it be?

It was, in hindsight, an invitation for disaster.

* * *

_"Laura, if you've changed your mind..."_

_"Of course not, I'm just not sure the timing is right. We have to face facts about this, Bill: no one is going to be thrilled that the President is emotionally and physically involved with the highest ranking member of her armed forces."_

_"I think you need to have a little more faith in the generous spirit of the Fleet, Laura. We're all human."_

_"The last time I relied on the will of the people, it got us a year of hard labor. That's a price I'm not willing to pay again."_

_"You're worried about steering public opinion?"_

_"I'm worried someone else will."

* * *

_

Laura and Bill saw one another nine, perhaps ten times in their entire first year on Earth, mostly during the spell of days she spent in UCLA Medical Center to remove the tumor that had reappeared in her left breast.

It was a harrowing few weeks, made worst so by the cancer's inopportune timing: they had only just begun grounding the civilian fleet and the negotiations of technology disclosure.

Having been one of the symbolic first to undergo the daunting and complete battery of medical tests required of each settling Colonial, a small army of doctors concluded, after rigorous examination and prodding, that she was in impressive physical shape for someone who showed signs of longterm anemia, had several recent bone breaks and hairline fractures courtesy of her time in cylon detention, ran a spectrum of vitamin deficiencies, and, was yet again in the early stages of breast cancer.

Most surprising, Laura found, was her lack of surprise, even in the face of Baltar's death and apparent fulfillment of the "dying leader" clause. Although she had never balked in her responsibility to the Fleet after her miracle recovery, it was a source of ire that she'd been usurped as a leader of men by a raving cad, or so it seemed if the word of the Gods was interpreted directly.

However, since her initial remission, Laura had come to view the Scriptures much the way that she had regarded her elders advice when it came to men when she was a young woman: well intentioned, though largely impractical and rather frightfully misguided at times.

When they discovered her cancer had returned, Laura feared what the knowledge of her sickness would mean in the course of the Colonial negotiations. Thanks to the savvy of a compassionate group of doctors, her illness was kept confidential, and the tumor removed before it even began to approach the level of severity it had reached at the time of her first diagnosis.

A brief operation and several weeks of daily, half-hour radiation treatments followed, during which time the Colonials had remained in a holding pattern as, one by one, ships were emptied of their civilian passengers on the base for screening and housing assignments.

Bill hadn't been there when the oncologists stared her down, faces graver than Cottle at his meanest, making her feel naked and cornered even in the pin-striped power suit she'd been given. Bill hadn't been there when they gave her the all clear.

It was a trying time for everyone.

The Admiral of the Fleet had been handed a thousand obligations; she had ten thousand of her own.

Bill's chief obligation had been to oversee operations in what had come to be known as the Colonial Zone, an almost-island military complex off the coast of Southern California. Coronado wasn't quite paradise, particularly the barracks, but with warm wind, surf and blue skies, it was close enough for the spacesick, sunlight starved civilians.

If the American and UN officials distinguished themselves by a unanimous air of anxiety in the proceedings, the Colonials were simply grateful. There were screenings and medical tests to perform. The UN outfit coordinated and administered, functioning similarly to a Red Cross or other relief agency.

To the shock of nearly all parties involved, things had gone well. The government of the United States was more than happy to comply with any and all collaboration. Laura, backed by Bill, the Quorum of Twelve and several captains from the Fleet, had negotiated the details of their settlement with extreme finesse.

It came down to quid pro quo, which Laura had expected. Politics didn't change, only the planet.

The treaty gave international proprietary access to a number of their ships designs, but in exchange for settlement rights, including housing, transitional services, and pending citizenship, the US would retain exclusive rights to the FTL drives. The American President had agreed to the proposal, and with a readiness that had surprised her. Apparently it was a deal that stoked the national ego. Or, perhaps, he was just a curious personality.

Whatever had played a role in her counterpart's decision, Laura herself had mused long and hard before even bringing the offer to the table. She'd paced miles through the hallways of the hospital and then the base offices, debating the moral and practical ramifications of ushering the people of this planet collectively through their technological adolescence. But, in the end, it remained the most viable card she could bring to the table, much more preferable than handing over the only other techno-wonders they had: Sharon Agathon and her hybrid child.

The FTL drives for settlement, rights and citizenship.

Thus the Colonials came to Earth.

* * *

TRANSCRIPT:

"Thank you, Stephen. We'll see you later before our moment of Zen...

Furthering intergalactic diplomacy, today the United Nations and the White House celebrated the one year anniversary of establishing Colonial offices of representation by announcing the formal creation of a Colonial seat on the UN Security Council.

President Laura Roslin is expected to parlay her years of experience leading the survivors of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol into a bid for the Ambassadorship...or possibly world domination.

(audience laughter)

Seriously, people: She was Secretary of Education, man! She throws people out airlocks! You telling me ruler wielding nuns, are scary anymore? No frakkin' way!

Laura Roslin? A PILF who could make Stalin cry.

(audience laughter)

White House Secretary Robert Gibbs took questions on the newly inaugurated Office of Colonial Affairs. The sub cabinet level agency is dedicated to serving the forty thousand-plus refugees of, wait! wait for it...: Caprica!Tauron!Aerolon!Picon!Gemenon!Saggitaron!Viron!Leonis!Canceron!Aquaria!Libran! aaaaaaand Scopia!

(audience applause)

I actually learned those reading my Google Horoscope.

The Office of Colonial Affairs thus far has seen some rousing success in easing the transition of Colonials, and Americans, to life planetside...and confusing the (expletive) out of first graders everywhere.

(falsetto:)  
"Mommy, where are their tri-cornered hats?"

(audience laughter)

Shocking no one at all: Colonial Williamsburg still continues to confuse and disappoint.

(audience laughter)

More from our Senior Intergalactic Correspondent, Samantha Bee. Samantha!..."

* * *

Despite holding a now defunct office, she still had a job to do. President or not, Laura Roslin was still regarded as the leader and representative voice of the people (much to Tom Zarek's unending displeasure), and was expected to continue as such.

Further more, it stood to reason that Laura Roslin was not simply the former President of the Twelve Colonies, she was also their Promoter in Chief. So, obliging her citizenry, she did her part.

She smiled brightly and shook hands, as politicians had done, from time immemorial, at all ends of the Universe. She met the leaders of the many and diverse governments of this small world, astounded by the sheer diversity, asking endless questions with good cheer and a rapt attention. She held her ground in formal debates, was diplomatic and unwavering.

She granted interviews with writers and news anchors, appeared on the weekly television news magazines and talk shows - real and fake alike. Laura found the satirical ones were her favorite; easily as intelligent as legitimate news programs, self-effacing but critical. More often than not she found the anchor's puckish observations (including those about herself) sincerely amusing. They gave her hope for civilization.

Such as it was, she was rarely to be found at Camp Picon, as the Colonial Zone was informally nicknamed. Laura Roslin was in demand, nearly every hour of the day, literally by almost everyone on Earth.

On one memorable occasion, having been routinely interrupted and ogled by an overtly misogynistic Prime Minister, she even found herself missing Baltar.

Later, she'd admitted as much to Bill, but only after she had rinsed the day from her skin and curled up in an armchair in the latest hotel, in the latest city, on the latest continent, wanting nothing more than his arms around her and unable to have even that. His voice would have to do. Though, delicious as it was, she found it a poor substitute for the steady thump of his heartbeat, the gentle way he nuzzled her neck in his sleep. A habit, she recalled fondly, he had kept up since the very first night they got their act together.

Her position demanded travel; his, exactly the opposite. They made do with phone calls, sending e-mails and Lee playing courier between rounds of their informal book club (which, given the sudden availability of reading materials, had become a favorite habit of theirs).

His voice, always a comfort, always far away.

"Where are you today?"

"Argentina, I think. I'd hardly know without the agendas at every hand."

"Lee said something about OPEC."

"Yes, the fuel issue again. I swear Bill, the logic behind using such dangerously scarce natural resources...I'm tempted to jump back to a system and drag a hunk of tylium back to Earth." She trailed off, not wanting to go off on another frustrated tangent. There had been too many in the last year. She shrugged it off. Time to enjoy the moment at hand.

"If by 'logic' you mean a lack thereof, I'm in your camp, Madame President."

She hummed an agreement. It was so good to hear his voice.

"How I wish you were, Admiral." Her mouth quirked, as she leaned back in her chair, wondering if he'd take the bait.

"That makes two of us, Madame President." She could hear her own longing in his words, nestled amid the playfulness and arousal. "Any ETA on when you'll be back?"

Tipping her head back, she took a breath.

"Next week, I think. It will be good to be home." Home was technically Camp Picon, though in her mind, she thought of it as wherever he was.

"Saw Starbuck today."

"Yes? How is Kara doing?"

"Seemed alright. Been spending a couple days with some actress. If you thought she treated nuggets bad, you should see her try to bust this little wisp of a thing into someone resembling Kara Thrace. Think she sees it as her personal duty to make sure any and all representations reflect the original."

Laura smiled at the though, not envious of the young woman dauntless enough to try on Starbuck's personality for size. It seemed a fruitless endeavor; she couldn't see how anyone could live up to the task.

"How about you, Admiral? Been giving your version of events to your fictional self? I'm rather curious to see what he'll have to say when this plays out." She giggled a little. What a ridiculous development this particular ordeal was.

"His agent or whatever keeps calling. Haven't gotten around to it."

"Likewise. Though, in the spirit of collaboration, I suppose I'd better find some time for it."

"We have another matter to discuss, Laura."

Laura, of course, knew exactly what he was referring to. She dropped the receiver a little so he couldn't here the sound of her deep breath and sigh.

"Indeed we do, sir. And we can discuss how to move forward next week when I'm back."

Bill murmured his approval, though somewhat glumly. Feeling bad, before they parted she painted a rather dramatic picture of how much she was looking forward to being home, and the many ways she planned on proving it.

Laura laughed slyly to herself as she lay her weary head down. Whatever time it was in San Diego, (and she found, somewhat cruelly, that she didn't much care) she imagined Bill was going to have a long night ahead of him.

* * *

_He'd asked again the night after they'd found Earth. The moment the hatch had closed, he'd been on her, searing thought from her mind with the fire in his kisses. This was Bill Adama, all passion, with life enough in him for ten men at half his age._

_"It is a testament to the strength of my love that I offer you this well deserved opportunity to say, 'I told you so.'"_

_Laura chuckled lowly. Touching her forehead to his, she brushed her nose against his fondly. He was such a dear. "Will wonders never cease? Of course, you forget, Admiral, this was all your bright idea."_

_"Great minds..."_

_"No, Bill, you were right. You gave this Fleet something to live for. You gave them a home."_

_"Pick a spot," he whispered, kissing her temple, her cheek, the curve of her jaw. "In a forest, below the mountains, on a cliff by the sea...pick a spot, and that's where I'll marry you."_

_Her pulse quickened as she felt the warm brush of his lips down the sensitive skin of her neck. Obliging the sudden, overpowering desire to divest herself of clothing, she whispered in his ear as she struggled to kick off her shoes, "That's it. Right there, Bill. Perfect."_

_And the discussion was waylaid by a tangent. Several, in fact.

* * *

_

**_Variety_**  
Cast members added to 'Battlestar'  
Beyoncé, Harrelson sign on for space epic

Adding more star power to the saga helmed by Michael Bay, Beyoncé Knowles  
and Woody Harrelson have signed onto the NBC Universal Studios  
feature, set to begin lensing next month. Based on the real-life journey  
of the survivors of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, the BSG sceenplay  
was penned by acclaimed screenwriter/director Paul Haggis. Though  
roles have not yet been reported, sources say Harrelson has been cast as  
Galactica XO Saul Tigh.

Harrelson and Knowles join a growing ensemble cast that includes  
Richard Gere as Admiral William Adama, Kathleen York as Pres.  
Laura Roslin.

Producers are Graham King, Cathy Schulman, and Jerry Bruckheimer.

'The Battlestar Galactica' is scheduled to open "Colonial Day" Weekend 2010

* * *

There were days when Laura Roslin hated Earth. Hated it, the whole frakkin' planet. Days that she hated the pettiness and the ethno-centric mentalities. Hated the way people clung to differences in language and culture, allowing both to define them. Hated that this one small planet - smaller than tiny Virgon and Gemenon - had given rise to a society of tribal oligarchies that fed on one anothers dissent.

But then she remembered.

She remembered the ages old racism, running down through the bloodlines from parent to child; she remembered the intractable caste systems that spawned hate and violence; the face-value judgments of skin and ink that considered only the mark and never the meaning; she remembered religious intolerance, subjugation, and prejudice.

At the end of the worlds, they were no saints themselves. All their sins were equal.

Besides, there was more to love, and wasn't that the point?

The obvious absences of life in space: fresh air and rain. The elemental warmth of sunshine on her skin (a feeling she promised herself never to take for granted again). Running water, falling leaves. Warm sand and the loamy scent of earth.

Even when Laura's head ached at the problems Earth presented, her senses sang to spite it.

After years of tasteless green muck (a substance she was horrified to find was being touted by some television personalities as a surefire way to thick glorious hair and a tiny waist), she reveled in a world of new flavors and tastes. Plums and pears, the tangy sweetness of pineapple and mango; rich, savory meats that tasted like heaven to her iron-deprived body; wines that flooded her palate with bright, lingering flavors; teas with names she loved to say - darjeeling, hibiscus, lapsang suuchong; searing Thai curries and smoky pancetta; delicate seafoods; fresh aromatic vegetables that grew from actualearth; every kind of chocolate she could get her hands on.

Coffee. Real coffee. With cream and sugar or carafes of espresso. Her first cup in Rome made her cry from the joy of it.

There were silly things, too.

The American President himself caught her arm after a meeting and pressed a small blue device, thin and sleek, into her hand. A gift from his wife, he said. Laura had spent enough time with the First Lady to know she was a savvy and generous woman. Pointing out the basic functions, he clicked through the playlists and artists catalog.

"We had the girls help us pick some of the music," he said by way of explanation. "I hope you like Lady Gaga."

Surprisingly, she did.

Laura really loved her iPod.

* * *

But, for every great luxury - music, wine, laughter - there were a thousand other tiresome details that consumed Laura's days and thoughts. This was precisely how she ended up granting an informal interview to the woman charged with the task of "becoming" Laura Roslin.

Regardless of how much the studio executives espoused its marketability, Laura had mixed feelings about the whole film thing.

"Have you seen the script?"

"Oh, no, I'm afraid not. My aide took the opportunity to review the story points they sent along at the outset, but that's as much time as I've been able to spare. As much as I'm looking forward to the finished product, I think it's best to let those with creative talents far greater than my own take the reins," Laura replied.

Laura was pleased to discover the redheaded actress cast to play her was age appropriate, intelligent, and rather lovely. Though she'd not actively indulged in it much, a latent vanity was appeased, and some of her concerns - some silly, some legitimate - were dispelled.

They'd spent the morning exploring Laura's emotional perspective on the many events that had transpired since the attacks. The production executives had cast her role thoughtfully. Her counterpart had wanted to know about the person in the position, especially the woman Laura was. It was somewhat strange unraveling the significance of events in her life with a near-perfect stranger. Laura had revisited the endless tedium and traumas alike with as much detail as she could impart.

"Besides, I imagine that if I read the thing, I'd be critical to a fault. I'd end up spoiling things with the reality of it all. Art needs to trump the bitter facts, at times."

The woman - Kathleen - laughed, and sipped her spring water. She had a mellifluous voice that filled the stark base courtyard with dulcet tones. Apparently she was a singer as well.

"Well, I wouldn't say 'art', but I like your optimism, Ma'am."

"Even melodrama has its charms, though let us hope it amounts to more than that." Laura smiled demurely. The last thing she needed was to become a fixture on some third-tier cable network.

"Naturally. No - what's the phrase? 'So say we all.'"

"You've done your homework, I see."

"Of course. If I accomplish nothing else today, Ma'am, I hope I impress upon you that I'm taking this role very seriously. I find your story...you, fascinating. Though, I admit, I've never played a real, living person before, Madame President." Kathleen, it seemed, was intent on respectfully ignoring Laura's insistence to forgo her former title. "I wondered if you'd like to observe Rich and I run through some scenes..."

"Oh, Gods, no!" Laura grasped her arm, charmed, but adamantly against the idea. "Oh, how mortifying. I'd be self-conscious for weeks. No, no. I'm told by the people whose job it is to know that you are someone of great talent and experience. I trust your interpretation, shall we say, to be what you feel."

Her doppleganger nodded, appreciating the awkwardness of the situation.

"If I may ask, Ma'am, how would you say your relationship with Admiral Adama has changed, over the years?"

Laura clasped her hands behind her back, "The Admiral and I have nothing but the utmost respect for one another. Bill has been a true friend and great support over the years. I like to think our strengths made us complimentary. Made us better leaders. Quite honestly, I don't know what I'd do without him."

Well, that was the truth of it.

"Is that all?" Kathleen raised an eyebrow, giving Laura the somewhat eerie experience of looking in the mirror at a more dubious version of herself.

She smiled her most serene politician's smile. "For the moment, that's all I'm willing to let your bosses know."

Surely an actress of all people could understand the need for privacy.

* * *

_Months passed. The conversation came up again, three or four times._

_Three or four times, she avoided the specifics. When he asked what she was waiting for, Laura didn't have an answer for him._

_"Time" seemed a poor excuse for someone with a world full of it at last, even if none of it was her own._


	2. Chapter 2

Early in their first year on Coronado, a day came when she found herself faced with the rare opportunity of both being in the Colonial Zone and with some time to spare. As such, she stopped by the secondary school, wanting to see how her former students were faring.

A boy walked up to her, flanked by several shy and eager companions, and offered her a small, brightly wrapped package. She opened it with a smile, and was shocked to find a framed photograph of the Forum on Caprica.

"We were going to send it to you. We found it in an old magazine from the _Zephyr, _it's not a real print or anything."

Laura pressed a hand to her heart, more overcome by the gesture than by her memories.

The students had retreated soon thereafter, leaving the frame with Laura. It sat on her desk, beside the photo of her and Billy. She stared at them often, and as she did, ideas began to take shape in her mind.

* * *

As the car ushered them down Sunset Boulevard, Bill traced the ridges of her knuckles with his thumb, attempting to allay some of her anxiety. He was well attuned to her many moods by now.

"Looking forward to this?" he asked.

His voice filled the interior of the motorcade limousine. A deep and dear sound that reverberated in all the spaces between them. At times such as these Laura felt she could spend the rest of her days exploring its infinite resonance.

She turned her attention from the window, much preferring the view at her side.

"Not particularly."

"Makes two of us."

* * *

There were lights. There were photographers. There were crowds of screaming fangirls.

"Kinda makes you feel bad for 'em, doesn't it?"

Sam Anders stood at her shoulder, surveying the madness on the red carpet where a number of late arrival actors were besieged by reporters with microphones and demanding paparazzi.

Laura was very glad her position allowed her to have slipped in though the back entrance. Those fangirls were intimidating.

The lights in the lobby flashed off and on, signaling the film was about to begin. People began moving towards the theater entrance. Bill broke off his conversation with Galen Tyrol, who looked decidedly uncomfortable in black tie, and waited for her to join him in taking their seats.

Laura and looked up at Sam.

"Well, Mr. Anders, we might as well get this over with."

* * *

When the title sequence came up, a single thought flooded her mind: It was an eerie thing to watch your whole world annihilated.

Feeling relatively unaffected by the images of the Cylon attack, Laura felt an odd sense of shame.

But, then again, none of them had been there. There was almost no footage in existence, from any of the worlds, of the carnage that had taken place that fateful day. The photograph of the unknown solider brought to his knees by the burning of Picon that had been captured by a photojournalist who made it aboard the last transit off the planet was one of the few that had survived the exodus. She had no memories to compare with the events, apart from a frantic wireless call from her shuttle to Jack Greene on Caprica. All she had heard were thundering crashes before the line went dead.

On screen, huge explosions leveled the Colonies. The Forum on Caprica, burned to the ground. The great temples and sacred places on Gemenon, reduced to rubble by the warheads. The plains on Libran, coastal towns of Picon, jungles of Saggitaron-all of the familiar, iconic places had been skillfully rendered and re-imagined for this brutal montage. It was horrifying and unreal, loud and seemingly insensitive-a rather mindless spectacle. Since she hadn't actually experienced it, Laura felt very removed from the devastation.

Apparently there were a lot of lensflares at the end of the worlds.

* * *

They had done a good job with the casting, and, in the interest of screentime, had glanced over Her "Dying Leader" bit, attributing it to an simple, curable illness for which no medicine was available. Miracle of miracles, some had been found on Kobol, tying that little storyline up quite nicely.

On the whole, it was surreal and faintly amusing.

Until the Pegasus showed up.

"We could...take this elsewhere." The Admiral sidled up to her commander, trailing her trigger finger down the length of his sleeve. "Of course, Commander, if there's something going on between you and the President..."

Bill was furious. "That never happened!" He whispered in her ear.

Laugh suppressed a humorless giggle. Her nerves were increasingly on edge with every scene in this farce. "You weren't her type."

* * *

She blinked back tears when Billy died. He would have been mortified by how he'd been portrayed in this rubbish. She smiled at the thought of that sour expression on his baby face. Bill squeezed her hand.

* * *

Mercifully, there was no mention of stolen babies or elections. Small favors, indeed.

* * *

New Caprica. Much to Laura's delight, the plot emphasized Baltar's failure in leadership and focused more on the supporting characters.

Starbuck's kidnapping. The insurgency (the film kept calling them "rebels" and "freedom fighters"). Saul Tigh's torture. Her own was greatly exaggerated. Bill knew what really happened, but it didn't stop him from visibly tensing for the duration.

As Laura watched the scenes unfold - the tension heightened with tensile music, all shrieking strings and percussion, slow motion expressions and extreme close ups - she reasoned that however insufferable she found Hollywood, it was at least an improvement over New Caprica.

Barely.

"Bill, you came back..."

"I couldn't leave our people behind. Couldn't leave you behind, Laura..."

"Oh, Bill..."

Mouth open, she stared in horror.

Laura Roslin was used to a general lack of privacy. She never went anywhere alone, given the necessity and dedication of her security detail. Her daily schedule was scrutinzed by almost anyone with the inclination to look it up, as was her wardrobe, her habits, her preference in tea...

But, for all of the public attention she'd grown used to over the last several years, none of it made her as self-conscious as seeing her doppelganger embrace a fictional version of Bill Adama in a passionate kiss on a movie screen the size of Galactica's hanger bay.

She squirmed in her chair, blushing fiercely and avoiding eye contact with everyone she knew. At least it was dark.

Beside her, Bill groaned and hung his head.

Somewhere behind her, Kara Thrace was hollering her wild and raucus approval. Laura made a mental note to smack her later.

* * *

And then there was the sex scene.

"Madame President, I seem to recall you suggesting that we 'start having babies...'

"Oh my Gods. Oh my Gods. Oh my gods..." Laura Roslin was sure nothing, ever, had ever horrified her as much as this.

"Are they frakking kidding me with this?" Bill growled in disbelief. Laura was vaguely grateful that he was not currently armed (though she wished she was).

Unintentionally, she caught Saul Tigh's gaze, and frowned at his sly grin.

Frakking Hollywood.

* * *

By the time the conclusion rolled around, Laura almost couldn't take it anymore.

She had very nearly gotten up and walked out on the final scenes wherein Baltar "saved the day", or whatever. Her contempt for him had not tempered since his death. The onscreen Gaius...communed, she supposed was the word for it, with one of the hybrids, and then there was the confrontation with the Cavil in charge. Then something else happened, accompanied by explosions and Vipers making near escapes and big, thematic music...blah blah blah. It was all grandiose absurdity, an attempt to thrill the audience. It made her stomach turn.

She'd lived the real thing, and was galled by this Hollywood-style ending, particularly how the film attributed Baltar's "visions" and "gifts" to his success in obtaining the coordinates for Earth from the strange and mystic cylon hybrid. It was all part of predictable character arc about his "redemption," pointing the way to his eventual "sacrifice." Laura preferred to think of it as the last gasps of a great analytical mind, reaching up through the layers of madness that had enveloped him.

In the end, the "resolution" posed many unanswered questions-the still unknown identities of the final five, if the cylons would return and find them, how the people of Earth would accept them...

All of which only served to remind Laura about those very real problems and about the terrifying possibility of a sequel.

When the lights came up, the audience applauded loudly around them. The smarmy director gave a smarmy speech about the next smarmy thing he'd be up to.

Bill looked at Laura, eyes grave and dark behind his glasses. "This is gonna be a long night."

She nodded. Gods that was true.

* * *

Bill was silent during the ride to the reception. It was just as well, she had grown increasingly angry from the moment the end credits began to role.

Angry at the producers. Angry at the directors. Angry at herself for not having been more involved in this frakkin' travesty. Angry at this frakkin' culture and what passed for entertainment.

Livid, she clenched her jaw, steeling herself for the strength to get through the after party. She wanted to spend as little time at the event as possible, make an obligatory appearance and then quietly disappear upstairs to her room.

It became apparent very quickly that this would not be happening anytime soon.

Laura struggled to maintain her composure when passing through the area cordoned off for the press, cheerfully giving a number of bland, non-committal sound bites to the entertainment reporters.

After fighting her way through the throng, she passed through open french doors to the reception area. The party area was comprised of a large indoor room, tastefully underlit and styled to mimic the minimalist design of Galactica herself. Waiters circled the room with trays of drinks. She heard one woman order a "Colonial 151" and another ask for a "Tauron-tini".

_Bill is going to love this..._

Laura slowly made her way through the room. Many of those in attendance were the kind of important, polished-looking people with healthy tans and overly bright smiles. Movie types. She didn't didn't feel up to engaging any of them in conversation, and made a beeline for the first familiar face she recognized.

She found Saul Tigh by the bar. The man had a magnet for free liquor.

"Hell of a night," he groused, holding up a drink in toast.

"You said it, Colonel." Catching the bartenders eye, she motioned for him to bring whatever Saul was drinking. Knowing Saul, it would something strong and neat. Just what she needed.

"Another few those, if you don't mind," she heard, over her shoulder as she accepted the glass. Laura turned to find Lee and his father approaching them.

"How did you enjoy our moment in the sun?" She asked, chiding him. Lee's story line had been almost as licentious as her own.

"It was...something," Lee finished lamely. He shrugged, affecting a smile. "If nothing else, it'll help curry sympathy for us, even for those who think its exaggerated and saccharine."

Bill grunted in a semi-agreement, raising his glass to his lips. "Dee make it here?"

"Oh, she's around. Let's just says she wasn't a fan of some of her character development."

"There's always another fight with Dee."

Saul grunted, clearly familiar with the shifting moods of women. "If you're having girl problems, I feel bad for you, son. Feels like I've got ninety-nine problems, but at least a -"

"Lee!"

Lee pursed his lips as his wife gestured for him to join her with a group of the smiling, polished-types. Lee ducked his head and tossed back his drink, nodding towards his father and Laura. "If you'll excuse me."

Saul grumbled something and took a long drink of his scotch. He looked unfocused, and kept cocking his head to the crowd, as if he heard something. He twitched a little, gruffly barking at the the bartender to tone the music down.

"Something bothering you, Saul?" Bill asked.

"Uh? Oh, just got a lot on my mind.

Odd, Laura thought. She hadn't heard any music yet.

* * *

When all was said and done, mortification aside, it did manage to settle some long standing bets between members of the Colonial Fleet.

"Helo, where's my twenty cubits!" Calling out to her former crewmate, Kara Thrace shimmied past him, gleeful over her apparent victory. The beads of her low-cut dress sparkled in the stylish dim light.

_Great_, Laura sighed.

"No way, Starbuck; I don't owe you anything yet." Tempered but grinning, Karl Agathon shook his head, and, arm slung around his wife, gestured with a finger towards the couple in question. "Just cause it's in some stupid movie doesn't prove anything."

Athena quirked a smile of her own.

"You get that, right Starbuck? Pretty sure you know a thing or two about embellishing the truth for the value of a good story, otherwise you'd have nothing to distract us from your weak-ass Triad face..."

Starbuck spun on her heel as she passed them, walking backwards on a beeline towards where Laura stood.

"That's why I'm the legend around these parts." With a wink and bang, bang, guns-blazing gesture of her hands, she turned and set about proving her point.

"Rough night's about to get worse," Helo remarked, taking in a long breath.

Athena nodded in agreement. "Good thing there's an open bar."

Privately, Laura agreed.

* * *

Anticipating a conversation with Kara she wasn't ready to have yet, Laura excused herself, breaking away with the excuse of heading to the restroom. Unfortunately, in doing so she found herself in the direct path of one of the most obnoxious film producers, who promptly called the leading actors over from their VIP table for yet another discussion of the premiere. Perhaps dealing with Starbuck would have been easier, in the long run. Laura smiled, and endured, ever the professional.

When she was finally able to extract herself from the overly friendly grasp of the executive producer, she ran into Tory, who was staring off across the room, looking distracted and more than a bit dazed. Laura couldn't fault her. Compared to the simplicity of the Camp Picon, the reception hall and sprawling outdoor patio and grounds sparkled with an unnerving decadence. She cringed at the thought of how much money had been spent on a party - a party meant to satisfy egos and placate studio executives. No doubt they were all patting themselves on the back downing cocktails and enjoying the fruits of their labor, as her previous interaction had suggested.

Laura suppressed the urge to list the many uses the money for the design budget alone could have been used for. Tory felt much the same way.

"I can't decide if this whole thing is hilarious, or if I should be sit down and cry."

"You and me both. Gods, part of me would like to sue their asses for...whatever. Bad art."

"I don't think that's actually a crime, Ma'am. Have you seen what they put on television?"

Faintly, Laura recalled that Tory had discovered a weakness for some reality show about models.

"That's not art, Tory. Sure we can't sue them?"

"Well, I haven't passed the bar ma'am but I know a little bit," Tory began.

Laura waved her off. "All right, all right. Enough of that." She smiled, and with a gentle shove, ushered her aide towards a group of young men and women near the patio. "Go have fun, Tory. Or try to. You've earned it."

* * *

From what Laura could gather in an unofficial census, opinions on the film seemed to fall one of two ways: those who found it ridiculous (the Colonials) and those who didn't (everyone else).

As she passed by Galen Tyrol, she overheard him accuse a screenwriter of fabricating plot points.

The producer defended himself. "Hey, I did all kinds fact checking "

"Why type of facts are those?" Tyrol said, glowering at him. Sam gave Tyrol a strange look, and they glanced at one another for a moment. Even from several yards away they both looked unsettled, by the evening's event or something else.

"You're out of your mind. Did you have anyone from Camp Picon look over that dreck?"

"Mr. Tyrol, I won't deny we took some artistic license, but that's the nature of screenwriting. But if you're unhappy with the way we adapted events, perhaps for sequel..."

Grimacing, Laura suddenly wanted another drink.

* * *

Three producers, four actors, and someone who claimed to be "in development" later, Laura was beginning to feel liable to commit acts that no amount of political importance could absolve her of if she didn't get out of here soon.

"I think I need some air," she said, catching Bill's eye and gesturing to the outdoor patio garden.

He nodded and moved to follow her, but stopped as something caught his eye. Laura glanced over her shoulder.

Across the room, Kara Thrace stood next to the DJ, threw back her drink and hollered a pilots cheer out over the crowd.

"This one goes out to LEE ADAMA!"

A raucous beat started up, all up tempo percussion and catchy guitar riffs.

Laura was about to respond to Lee when a woman began to sing,"Your daddy don't know what your mama's gonna do tonight. Oh, your daddy don't know..."

That was it. Laura had _had _it.

* * *

She paced with fury, unable to comprehend how Bill could lean against the stone wall lining the garden patio looking so placid.

"I blame your son," she groused to Bill, tripping a little in her rage and falling out of her shoe in the process.

"I agree. Definitely Lee's fault." Bill nodded his stoic assent, trying to help her and being swatted away. "But, just for posterity's sake, what are we blaming him for exactly?"

"For this fiasco. He was so hell-bent on advocating for this whole sordid thing. He's so annoyingly idealistic...Oh, don't give me that 'aw shucks, that'd be my fault, ma'am' look, Bill Adama. I could kill you, too, right now. With this shoe!" She stumbled again a little as she tried to coax it back onto her foot.

"Laura..."

"Right now! You and Lee both, I've got one for each of you. The only thing that's keeping me in check is that I really frakkin' like these shoes."

He sighed, settling against the dias as she tugged at the shoe again. "I can see that, though I'm not sure why."

"Because I don't have an airlock at the moment!"

"Meant the shoes," he muttered. "Laura, it's just a movie."

She unleashed the full force of her anger on him.

"Actually, it's a joke. For heaven's sake, they made poor Billy the comic relief in every scene. Billy. They didn't show how smart he was, or how capable. He dug up those admiral's pips, when I was sure they'd be impossible to find. Forget that he used to volunteer what little spare time he had with the grade school children on the Rising Star because they reminded him of his niece and nephews. One of those producers in that room back there made him a joke, because someone's account recalled one awkward moment or offhand opinion about a boy who meant more to me than anyone else in my life up until then. They made him a joke, Bill. That is unacceptable."

She knew her voice was rising, that she was in danger of really losing it, but couldn't bring herself to care. Crossing her arms, she went on.

"Gods, and New Caprica? They made us seem... obvious, and what's worse, they made it seem cheap. Tawdry. You might have been made out as a hero, but all I got to be was the damsel in distress, always needing to be saved from disease or Cylons or my own emotional whatever. The damsel, while in reality I was organizing an insurgency and being tortured for my troubles. And I'm sorry if this is a blow to your ego, Bill, but I did not have time to pine away for you. I was too busy trying to hold together what was left of us. It's wasn't just a movie, Bill. It was our lives. Our experiences and memories are all that is left of the Colonies. And that depiction tonight was terrible."

He opened his mouth to reply, but was beaten to the punch by an interloper.

"So boss, they get it right?"

Kara Thrace sauntered over, smiling an abusurdly bright smile, given the circumstances. As much as she had come to like the young pilot, Laura couldn't help but recall her earlier desire to throttle the girl.

Laura attempted to project an air of innocence.

"Precisely what did they get right, Captain Thrace?" It was impossible not to know what she was hinting at: Starbuck did nothing subtle.

So help me, if you know what's good for you, Kara...

"You got money riding on it?" Bill asked her casually,

"Bet your ass."

"Admiral, I'd rather if this conversation didn't-"

"New Caprica. Where's that leave you?"

"Bill!" Laura hissed at him.

"Ohhh ho ho! Well off, sir! Helo's going to be high and dry after this!"

"Do me a favor. Keep it in the family. Resist the urge to be your loudmouth self, Starbuck."

"Wilco, sir. Don't worry ma'am. After seeing that dress, I doubt anyone will be calling you 'Old Lady' anytime soon..." With that, Kara flitted off with a little less coordination than she should have had.

"Bill..." Laura began to growl, but her complaint was interrupted.

"What?" He straightened and edged in closer to her, refusing to back down from her ire. "We've just been outed to everyone on this planet with a fix for bad science fiction or intergalactic political nuance, and you're worried about Kara Thrace knowing when we got involved?"

"I'd have preferred a bit more discretion. From both of you."

"Time for discretion is over. We're here. We're settled. We did the job."

"It's not that simple."

"You've been waltzing around this for a long time. Time you looked at your cards and made a decision, Laura." He looked at her coldly. "I think maybe you already have."

With that, he turned angrily and left, leaving Laura and her temper alone on the patio.

* * *

From inside the main room, the dance floor crowed with young people as a bawdy singer purred a tune Laura half-recognized. Something about lovers caught in a bad romance. She was far too practical to internalize the sentiments layered in a pop song du jour, but still. The Gods, Laura wryly thought, had a rather nasty way of amusing themselves.

Sighing, she tipped her head to the darkening sky. She strolled aimlessly along the walkway, finding herself near a too-blue pool and collapsing in lounge chair.

Laura knew herself well enough to recognize she was projecting much of her frustration and fear into an otherwise trite and ultimately insignificant event. Bill was right, it was just a movie.

"Madame Prez!" Kara had wandered back over, carrying a bottle of something in her hand. She'd lost her shoes somewhere. "Not joining the party?"

"Needed a break."

Kara collapsed in the chair beside her. "I can relate. Been a while since I wore anything with a heel bigger than combat boots."

They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

"So you scare the Old Man off?"

"Let's just say that you and I both have a less than stellar track record when it comes to men in our lives."

"I'll drink to that."

"Give me that," Laura said, holding out her hand.

"Can't refuse a superior officer."

"You routinely refuse your superior officers, Starbuck."

"Only ones outside the family," Kara replied with a wink.

Laura laughed. "And especially the ones in the family," Laura countered, with a smirk.

"Can't argue that, Ma'am."

"Laura."

"Hmmm?" Starbuck asked, taking a long pull from the bottle. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Say what now?"

"It's just 'Laura', Kara. Before, you called me Madame President. Technically, I'm not the president anymore."

Kara seemed to consider that for a moment, but offered, "Not to get too heavy, ma'am, but you're the last leader of the Twelve Colonies. You'll always be our president."

Well, there was that.

"Besides," Kara continued, "you're still the de facto 'Lady in Charge.' They'll just be calling you Ambassador now. Which, by the way, is a hell of a demotion. You should really register your complaints."

Laura snorted in faint amusement, taking her own pull from the bottle. "Think I could put in for some retroactive hazard pay while I'm at it?"

"Paychecks are nice, kinda forgotten the fun cubits - sorry, dollars - will get you. But I'd take my reward in...whatever this is, at the moment." She passed the bottle back to Laura, who held it up and squinted to read the label.

The music wafting over the garden patio changed to a new pop song, and Starbuck sensed the transition, sitting up.

"I love this song. Come dance, you'll feel better. Especially if you kick those things off."

"Thank you, Kara, but I think not. I have some amends to make." Laura glanced up toward the hotels upper floors. "Go, live a little," she said, pointing toward Sam Anders, who'd spotted them across the pool."

"Aye, aye. Don't wear him out, " Kara said, brightly.

"It's not a school night, Captain."

"Touche, Madame Airlock."

"Go dance with your husband, Kara. Before one of those little blonde starlets snatches him up."

"He is pretty easy on the eyes, isn't he? Good thing, too, cause there's not much behind 'em..." Sam eased an arm around her and leaned in close.

"Aw, Kara, what do you take me as? I don't think you understand the intelligence that Sam Anders has."

Starbuck rolled her eyes.

* * *

He was out on the terrace, leaning over the railing, studying the view. The pink stone was still slightly warm from the strong afternoon sunlight, the metal railing cool beneath her touch as she moved beside him. On the far side of the railing stretched a long trough, leveled precisely and filled with green plants and flowers that flooded the air with a wild, verdant scent.

"I never asked if you read the last book I sent you," Laura said calmly.

"I did."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

He studied her sidelong. "It was pretty good."

"Oh?"

"Liked the main character. Harriet. Defied convention, didn't let anyone tell her how to live her life. Got a lot of grief for it, though. Still, I liked her spirit. Reminds me of someone I know."

Laura smiled. "I'm sorry." Forgive me?

He placed his hand over hers. He would always forgive her, even if she broke his heart. Bill turned his attention back out over the hills and the long sparkling gridlines of the city, but not before she caught the corners of his mouth turning up. "Kid was a pain in the ass, though."

She laughed, thinking of Lee and Kara. "True. The dear ones almost always are." She thought fondly of Billy, wishing he could have been here to see this world. She wondered what he would have have made of them all now.

As if sensing her sorrow, Bill snaked his arm around her waist and she leaned against him, resting her head on his shoulder. He dropped a kiss on her temple.

A thought struck her. "You know, that was a rather good mystery. Though I think you liked it because of the happy ending. Earnest Lord Peter and his aristocratic charm. Saves the day. Gets the girl." Laura felt rather than saw him smile.

"Always been my motto."

"Bill, I've been thinking..."

"Should I be worried?"

"Only if you were planning on sleeping tonight, Admiral," she growled playfully.

"Not if I can help it." He chuckled, low and close to her ear. Gods, how his voice thrilled her. "What have you been thinking?"

"I spoke to the former President yesterday. They're in the process of staffing the Office of Colonial Affairs. They wanted my recommendations on who to bring in from the Fleet. I think they're trying to organize ahead of schedule, allow some time for everyone to get to know one another."

"That's a good strategy. Unit cohesion's important."

"There's so much work to do. Still. It's funny, we spent so much time caught up in the frenzy of searching for Earth, were so consumed by it that I rarely ever considered what would need to be done once we arrived. If we arrived. Having to share it with a few hundred tribes of overpopulated, multi-lingual, polytheistic, technological adolescents didn't even enter my mind."

He sighed heavily, shoulders sagging a little in disappointment, but he gave voice to none of it, even as his heart sank. They both knew what the Ambassadorship meant.

"It's nothing you can't handle, Laura." He sighed in that distinctly Bill way, the way no other sigh or voice or man could ever quite capture. She turned in his arms and leaned against the terrace balcony to face him.

"The President liked my suggestions the other day."

"Not all he liked."

"Oh stop."

"Can you blame me?"

"Oh, I blame you for a great many things, Admiral. You drive me to distraction." Something in her tone suggested not always in a good way.

"That's a problem?"

"No. Yes. It was different, before. We had the advantage of being able to be discrete on Galactica. There weren't cameras and reporters and terrible films made about us." She reached for the words to explain herself. "It's all so...public. It would be worse with the Ambassadorship."

"The Fleet comes first, we agreed on that much from the beginning."

"The Fleet did come first...but we're not a fleet anymore, Bill. We're not an ad hoc coterie, caught between stars and our troubles. You'll be in San Diego. I'd be in New York, Washington, wherever."

She laid her hands flat against his chest and looked him in the eyes. "I fought this too long, Bill. Kept you away for a lot of reasons that now don't seem like very good ones at all. I don't want you on the other side of a planet or a continent. I don't want you on the other side of the room if I can help it."

The corner of his mouth raised, hinting at the bloom of a smile as the full meaning of her words began to sink in.

"That so?"

"It is."

His dear, familiar features were full of unasked questions. All of which had only one answer.

"I'm not accepting the job, Bill. I'm recommending Lee."

He remained silent, but the smile on his face grew and his grip on her waist tightened.

"I gave them my two cubits, and I think what I've contributed this past year has been important, and will go a long way toward improving our standing with the international leadership. But...I'm tired. I want someone else to take care of the heavy lifting. I did my part, I played my role. I lived for the Fleet, Bill. We both did. I think I've earned the right to have a life now."

She snuggled into the crook of his neck, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, feeling the tension in his shoulders dissipate and his chin come to rest on her the top of her head.

"What will you do, take up knitting?"

She snorted. Trust Bill Adama to ask the tough questions.

"If I had the inclination, I just might. But as nice as darning your socks and making supper every night sounds, I'm bit overqualified to be housewife, Bill."

"Yeah, but how you'd excel at it," he teased.

"Mmm, there's a university a few hours north of here. They want me for a position in their graduate school. It's a new chair; I'd be free to design my curriculum, to teach about the Colonies. I'm going to accept."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"There's also a project I want to start. A museum, a non-profit...I haven't worked out the details yet. I'll need everyone's help. I think it'd be good for Kara."

"What is it?"

"I'm calling it 'The Colonial Memory Project'. Our homeworlds might be gone, but there is so much we need to preserve. The Colonies aren't dead, not as long as someone remembers them. I want to help keep them alive."

His eyes were bright, even in the low light of the terrace. Laura averted her eyes coyly. "And there's us."

"You find that place yet?"

"As a matter of fact, I did."

He leaned in, kissing her a little more forcefully than she had expected. Bill Adama. Even now, he was still surprsing her.

"You want to go to bed?"

She flashed him a predatory grin, hooked a finger under his bowtie, and stepped backward towards the room.

"Not on your frakking life, Admiral." She turned on her heel, unzipping her dress, smiling more freely than she had in a long time.

Might as well enjoy her symbolic seniority while it lasted. She felt him come up behind her, his hands helping to slide the dress down her body, his voice in her ear:

"The military is at your command, Madam President."

And it was.

* * *

Kara Thrace splashed her foot in the shimmering water.

"So, Apollo, the world ended, we saved humanity, and got a movie made about our frakked up existence. Think the worst is over for this lifetime?" On her left, Sam had passed out, which was not unusual. On her right, pants rolled up and feet dangling in the pool as well, sat at an at-ease Lee Adama, which was.

"I don't know," he replied, honestly. "We never did learn who the final five were. They could be here, waiting with us. Maybe they died on New Caprica, or on the basestars in those last fights before we jumped to Earth. There are still a lot of unanswered questions. It's possible they could find us again."

Kara took a long pull from her bottle and passed it over to him. "Bet those studio execs would love that."

Lee stared out at the hazy night sky above them. He took a swig of the bottle, and passed it back. "You know, it wasn't that bad."

Kara raised an eyebrow, accepting the bottle

"I'm just saying, it could have been worse."

"How the frak is that possible?" She elbowed him with minimal intent to injure, and took a long pull.

Lee caught her eye and smirked. "Could have been a musical."

They laughed together.

At last, things were good.

* * *

___________****_

Sunday New York Times  
Weddings and Celebrations

Monterey, CA - Dr. Laura Roslin, former President of the

____________

Twelve Colonies of Kobol, and Admiral William Adama,

former Commander in Chief of the Colonial Fleet, were

married this past week in a small, civil ceremony in coastal California.

The event was attended by close friends and family of all

planetary origins.

The pair are very happy.

* * *

**THE BATTLESTAR GALACTICA**

Directed by Michael Bay

Starring

Kathleen York as President Laura Roslin  
Richard Gere as Admiral William Adama  
Chris Pine as Lee "Apollo" Adama  
Rachel McAdams as Kara "Starbuck" Thrace  
Woody Harrelson as Saul Tigh  
Kim Cattrall as Ellen Tigh  
Gary Oldman as Tom Zarek  
Zac Efron as Billy Kekeiya  
Jake Gyllenhaal as Karl "Helo" Agathon  
Sandra Oh as Sharon "Athena" Agathon (I don't love this one)  
Famke Jannsen as Six  
Jude Law as Gaius Baltar  
Parminder Nagra as Tory Foster  
John Krasinski as Jammer  
Ellen Page as Racetrack  
John Cho as Hot Dog  
Ed Asner as Dr. Jack Cottle  
Sean Penn as Romo Lampkin  
Kate Winslet as D'Anna Biers  
Cillian Murphy as Leoben Conoy  
Beyonce Knowles as Anastasia Dualla  
Nathan Fillion as Sam Anders  
James Franco as Felix Gaeta  
Philip Seymour Hoffman as Chief Tyrol  
Miley Cyrus as Cally Henderson Tyrol  
Sam Neill as John Cavil  
Kevin Spacey as Doral  
Chiwetel Ejiofor as Simon

* * *

_____________Note: If you're thinking that all these peeps is younger/hotter than their BSG-verse counterparts...that is part of the joke :) It's Hollywood!_


End file.
